


the business of being warm

by Anonymous



Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29932077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: John Julian doesn't die.
Relationships: Babe Heffron/John Julian
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rare Pair Exchange 2021





	the business of being warm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anthrobrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anthrobrat/gifts).



> I high key wanted to write every single one of your prompts, but RL dictated only one. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I did kind of end up writing this as a everyone lives/nobody dies fic, mostly because I couldn't help it. Timeline follows pretty closely to the series, with some gaps filled in. Please no one take any of these filled in parts as anything approaching accurate. It's really not. 
> 
> HBO representation only, as always.

The bullet had taken a small chunk out of his shoulder, that was all. Doc Roe sorted it out with sulfa powder and a bandage, and had wanted him carted from the line. But Julian, groggy at the sight of his blood, had insisted he was fine, and if they tried to get him on an evac jeep, he’d just roll off and hitch hike his way back somehow, like how he used to do back home. He’d never done anything of the sort back home, but it wasn’t like anyone could check. Doc Roe had looked grimly at him, and Julian had smiled (or at least, it had felt like a smile. He didn’t really know what his face was doing, but he knew it was doing something), and said he was fine. 

Julian kept saying it, and people kept looking at him like he was making it up. Soon, though, even Doc Roe let him alone. Really, the worst part was Babe fussing over him worse than his own mother.

-

That night they sat cooped up in the foxhole together. Julian’s shoulder beat in time with his heart, and it hurt to clench his rifle. It was hard to find a way to relax, too. Sitting back against the gritty foxhole walls pressed against his shoulder, making it hurt worse, and he couldn’t lean either, like how he used to, slouched back with his rifle slung across his lap. Julian kept having to shift every few minutes, finding new ways to sit that didn’t make his legs or ass numb, that didn’t hurt his shoulder, and that would allow him to drift off while he had the chance. But then again, every time he got even somewhat close to sleeping he’d think about what had happened.

It was like a reel behind his eyes. The white snow, the jagged trees, the lazy drift of flakes tumbling around the squad. He’d been hung up about now being allowed to take point back then, which, when he looked upon it now, seemed like such a small thing to be hung up about. What happened if he’d led after all? Then maybe it wouldn’t have been his shoulder. The bullet could’ve gone through his heart or his head or something, and who the fuck knew then. It could’ve happened so fast that he wouldn’t even know he was dead. One second there, and the next moment not there. Just gone. Nowhere. Nothing but his body left behind. 

Julian thought, Shit. The word was very clear in his head. His mouth had gone dry, and his ears were ringing. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the tightly packed foxhole wall. Grit slid against his chilled skin, but he didn’t really feel it. He didn’t really feel anything.

“Julian?” 

Julian leaned against the foxhole wall a little more.

“Julian.”

Babe slapped a hand against his back. Julian jolted with a hiss, agony shooting through his shoulder.

“Jul--”

“Aw, leave it alone, Babe,” Julian snapped. “You can quit babying me you know.”

The foxhole was cramped, and only barely warm. Julian shuffled so he sat back on his heels, and exhaled a hard breath that was visible in the cold. Babe still had a hand against his back, and even if Julian was annoyed, the pressure of the touch was reassuring and warm, and it halted the messy train of his thoughts, or at least gave him something else to worry about. He swiped a shaking hand down his face, palm scraping along the patchy stubble.

“I ain’t babying you,” Babe said.

Silence collected in the foxhole. The only thing Julian could hear was their breathing, soft and quiet. But Bastogne was quiet like that anyway, at least when there wasn’t any gunfire. Sounds were absorbed into the snow in a completely different way to what he was used to. He thought it might have been because of the trees, or the foxholes everywhere, whatever noise they made settling into these oddly shaped spaces so it was almost as if sound didn’t exist.

“Shit.” Julian’s eyes were hot, and he scrubbed them with the heel of his hand.

He swallowed hard, not wanting Babe to notice, and then fuss over him any more than he was already doing. It was humiliating enough. They were basically the same age, and he’d gone through boot camp hadn’t he? He had his jump wings. Shit, he loved jumping out of planes. Loved the way his stomach would be left behind, and the rush of wind against his cheeks. 

But the way Babe was acting about his shoulder did nothing but draw attention to the fact that he wasn’t as experienced, or as hard, or as tough as someone like Babe and the others were. Skip, Penkala, Johnny Martin, with his scowling face and terse words. Luz, who cracked jokes about anything; Speirs, who moved through the snow with his rifle like some kind of reaper. 

It was like the virgin thing all over again, the way Babe had looked at him with his eyes wide as if he was gawking at the Virgin Mary herself and not him, Julian-the-virgin. Days later Julian wasn’t even sure anymore why he’d mentioned it. And it wasn’t a big deal, Julian had insisted. He’d even blushed, skin growing warm in spite of all the cold and snow around him. There were so many other things he hadn’t experienced, and there Babe was, making a big deal out of never having gone all the way with a woman.

“I can grab Doc,” Babe said.

“Why would I wanna-- Why would I wanna do that, huh, Babe?” Julian said. He moved then, trying to arrange himself comfortably in the foxhole. “Doc’s got better things to do. It’s fine, okay? It doesn’t even hurt anymore. It doesn’t, so you can stop looking at me like that and go to sleep or something.”

-

Babe was no better the next morning. Julian couldn’t shake him off, couldn’t get him to quit asking if he was okay. He had to slink out of the foxhole when Babe had fallen asleep, curled around his rifle. Babe always looked funny when he was sleeping, mouth slack and brows furrowed in a way that had Julian think he was arguing with people in his dreams somewhere back in Philly. He’d sit in his foxhole, trying to get warm, sort of watching Babe sleep while imagining himself along with him during a Philly bar crawl. With Babe haranguing him about darts or pool, or the finer points of beer, and him surprising the shit out of Babe in being the best goddamn dart or pool player in the entirety of Pennsylvania.

“Jesus Christ,” Babe would say, “why didn’t you say anything?”

And Julian would tell him, full of smug assurity, “Well, why didn’t you ask, Babe?”

It was a good enough way to pass the time on those long cold nights, even if it was a little embarrassing to think about later, in the full swing of daytime, and Julian always found himself being very careful not to look at Babe when he roused, just in case Babe squinted at him and asked, “Julian, have you been thinking about kicking my ass in darts, because you won’t.”

“It’s stressing me out,” he said to Skip when he found him lined up for food; another thin soup. “It’s stressing me out more than the idea of being shelled or shot at. I mean. I mean, it’s not like I’m dead or anything. Nearly everyone’s been hit in one way or another.”

“Aw,” Skip said, too cheerful about the entire thing. He was huddled into his jacket, with socks on his hands and the smallest stub of a cigarette jammed between his lips, and though he was shaking he still managed to shoot him a crooked smile. “He just cares about you is the thing.”

“Yeah, well, I wish he didn’t.”

“No you don’t,” Skip said. “Out here in all this? The snow, and the Krauts, and this bullshit? That’s what you want. Someone who gives a shit about you. Because if you don’t have that, then what? Then you’re stuck in this hell yourself.”

Skip Muck was a vet. He’d jumped on D-Day, and had participated in Operation Market Garden. Julian was in awe of him just as he was in awe with almost every single one of Easy. He should’ve been saying, Yes of course, that makes perfect sense, thank you, and gone back off to sit in his foxhole with Babe fussing and grousing.

But all that came out of Julin was, “He won’t let me alone,” hating how much it made him sound like his kid brother throwing a fit over something or another.

Skip just laughed at him. The brightness of the sound faded into the snow all around them. It had come down again overnight, and it took an effort to push through it, boots sinking almost ankle deep in the stuff. Julian thought of being a kid, and the couple of times they’d travelled north for the winter. Back then, snow had been an oddity and fascination, and he’d spend hours outside playing in it with the other kids, barely feeling the wet and chill he felt now as the snow melted into his clothes. Back then, it had never crossed his mind that snow could be a trap, a hindrance, or something he’d come to despise.

“How’s your shoulder?” Skip asked.

“Still there.”

If Babe was asking, Julian would’ve shrugged to prove the point. But it was Skip, and he didn’t have to prove anything, so he didn’t. It still hurt to move, and Julian kept his arm close to his body to keep it from being jostled.

“Well,” Skip said, finally taking his cigarette and disposing it. The line shuffled up. “You’re lucky Johnny didn’t hear you about any of that, and don’t expect me to cover your ass the second he does. What anyone would do to get babied over getting shot.”

-

Night settled, and with it so did a certain trepidation. A light snow started to fall by the time Julian found his foxhole and slipped inside. Babe was already there, hunched up in the effort to keep warm. The rim of his helmet shadowed his face, so Julian only really saw the line of his nose, red in the chill, and the suggestion of his frowning mouth before Babe reached up and shoved his helmet back.

“Hey,” Julian said, sliding his rifle off his uninjured shoulder to set aside. 

“Hey,” Babe said.

Someone outside walked past their foxhole, the show crunching and squeaking under their boots. The footsteps faded away before Julian could suggest they guess who they’d belonged to, but he shrugged and smiled at Babe as if to say, Too late. It was probably Doc Roe anyway, prowling around and checking on everyone.

“How’s your shoulder,” Babe said then. “Hurting any?”

“Uh, no, not really,” Julian said, and then when Babe’s eyes went all narrowed, “A little. I did get shot, Babe.”

Babe shoved off his helmet to scrub a hand through his hair and down his face. He really looked tired, dark shadows under his eyes, and skin pale and washed out, more so than usual. His hair, previously flat from his helmet, now stuck up in a disarray. Julian had to swallow back a laugh at the sight. He wasn’t even sure what he found funny about the whole thing, with Babe looking the way he did, and he thought, with some uneasiness, and a little of that old frustration, that Babe had worn himself thin with all that fussing. But he didn’t say anything, just in case Sergeant Martin was passing outside or something.

There was a little more to the uneasiness and the traces of frustration though. Julian wasn’t too sure what it was, but it felt an awful lot like guilt so he went with that. He leaned in a little, and touched his hand to Babe’s folded knee. Babe jolted, and then straightened.

“Really,” Julian said. “I’m fine. Thanks for looking out for me though. I mean. If anything did happen--”

“I know,” Babe said, “if anything happened, I said I’d get you back.”

“Right.”

“But nothing happened.”

“Right,” Julian said again. “Nothing happened. Nothing bad anyway. I fell out of a tree and broke my arm when I was seven, I told you that, right?”

“Yeah,” Babe said, “yeah. I think you did.”

“The bone broke funny, and a piece of it was sticking out through my skin. I’d show you the scar if I wasn’t wearing all this.”

There was silence for a long moment. Julian found himself looking at Babe, really looking at him, how his leg was bouncing even though he’d crossed them in the cramped space, and how he was biting at his lip. 

Uncertainty rose in him. “You… want me to grab Doc?” Julian said. 

Babe groaned and shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. Then, “Okay, so it’s not entirely nothing. I can’t stop thinking about it. The whole thing. If you were one foot out there without cover, or if one of those Krauts had better aim or something.”

He stopped there, swore, and jammed the heels of his hands against his eyes. 

Julian scrambled to a half squat. Doc Roe had only passed a couple minutes ago, and so he wouldn’t be far. He’d get Babe sorted. It wasn’t any sort of combat wound, but Julian also knew that just because nothing was bleeding, it didn’t mean there wasn’t no hurt.

“Stay here,” Julian said. “I’ll go grab--”

“No, Jesus Christ,” Babe said. “Sit down, Julian. I don’t need Doc right now.”

Julian still had his hand resting on Babe’s knee, and he squeezed because he didn’t know what else to do. Babe took a breath, and told him to sit down and get to sleep, and Julian did.

There was no shelling that night. Julian didn’t realise it until he woke up the next morning with cold air searing down his throat. He coughed, and across from him, Babe stirred. He didn’t quite wake though, just nestled further and fell back to sleep. Julian could never sleep once he was up. He rubbed his hands together, stealing glances of Babe’s face here and there. Babe’s mouth was slack, and he was frowning hard again. He’d coughed a lot during the night, and had kept moving. Usually, Babe was a consummate cuddler, and it was strange, now, to wake up without his bulk draped against him.

Eventually, Julian lit up a cigarette, and the smell woke Babe up a little, or at least woke him up enough for him to flop out a hand. Julian passed the cigarette across.

“Morning,” he said.

Babe mumbled something.

“Sleep alright?”

“I’d sleep better in a bed.”

“I miss pillows,” Julian said.

“Shit, you remember how we used to lie down to sleep?”

“Sort of. A little.”

“What’s your shoulder doing?”

“Right now?” Julian said. “Not a lot.”

Babe opened his eyes to glare at him before he hauled himself up, and then dumped himself down beside him. His weight was heavy and unexpected, and Julian hissed at the flare of pain, bright and sharp even if Babe fell against his other side.

“Shit,” Babe said, scrambling back a little, “I didn’t mean-- are you okay?”

“It’s okay,” Julian said. Then, when the pain had receded, “Good thing you’re no medic.”

Babe’s smile was grim, and then he scooted around to the bandage still tied around his shoulder. The material was crusted with dried blood. Babe worked to undo it with care, pushing fabric away until the wound was exposed between the torn fringes of his jacket. They’d hadn’t scrounged up a new one, and it wasn’t like they had the resources to stitch the tear up. Julian shivered, half with cold and half because of the way Babe traced around the sensitive healing skin. He wanted to tell him not to touch, but Babe pulled away before he could speak.

“I don’t think it’s getting infected.”

“Okay,” Julian said.

“It’s a mess though. It’s bleeding a little.”

“Yeah,” Julian said. “Okay.”

Babe swallowed audibly, and then moved to cover up the wound again, and then sat back. He finished off his cigarette, and ground it against the foxhole wall.

“Enough of your okays,” he said, “let’s go get something to eat.”

-

Doc Roe checked in on him later, when they were back in their foxhole, and as night moved in.

“How’s it healing?”

“Babe says it’s doing alright.”

Doc was crouched over the lip of their foxhole, and he glanced across it to Babe, who shrugged back at him. 

“That right,” Doc said, “any pain?”

“When I move it.”

“That’s good. Well, if it starts hurting again, come find me, alright. We can have another look at it.”

“Sure thing, Doc.”

Doc nodded, and stood up, and then moved off, snow crunching under his boots. Then Babe moved, coming to settle against him. His weight was warm and familiar, and it eased something in Julian when he pressed up against him like that. At least he’d stopped fussing. But then Julian wondered if he even minded anymore.

-

They cleared the woods east and west of Foy over the next few weeks, before settling back into their old positions overlooking the small village. Julian wasn’t entirely certain as to what to feel about it all. These old foxholes, those same old roofs below them; even if they had cleared the woods, and even though General McAuliffe said “Nuts,” to the suggestion of surrender, and that Smokey had been taken off the line; and even though Lt Welsh had been evacuated, and that Babe’s cough had receded and the cut on his hand had mostly healed, coming back to this point felt more like regression, as if nothing had changed.

But maybe it was because Julian was tired, and cold, and that the ground felt hard below him, like it had become more frozen, making it impossible to dig into. His hands were blistered around his entrenching tool, and his shoulder ached from the effort of digging, pain jolting every time he braced to drive the shovel into the dirt. Around them were the ragged trunks of trees, the tops obliterated from previous shelling, branches and shards of wood littered around. It all smelled like gunpowder and overturned soil. It was unnerving in spite of the familiarity of this patch of wood, and so Julian did his best to keep his focus on the task, glad he hadn’t opened his mouth and said anything when they’d returned earlier.

“Lt Peacock is headed back to the States,” Babe said, “hey, you listening to me?”

Julian stopped digging. “Huh?”

Babe gestured. “Peacock’s gone.”

“Yeah?”

Julian supposed he should’ve felt jealousy, some deep, dark envy. Certainly he pictured Lt Peacock, the smile on his face, and how he would’ve been bundled off the line and taken to the nearest plane aimed for sunny America, but he couldn’t dredge up any real feeling for it. Instead he drove his shovel into the ground again, and tossed out another thin layer of snow crusted dirt. 

The first mortar took them all by surprise, but the second sent everyone scrambling. Julian lost the entrenching tool as he slithered into the foxhole, knees folding under him as soon as his boots hit the ground. 

Julian had read about earthquakes, and somehow in the shelling, he wondered if this was an earthquake felt like. The same shaking ground, the same sharp smell of earth in the air; did it sound the same, too? Tearing earth would’ve been loud, rocks bursting, scraping together and then breaking apart; everything so loud that it hurt, making him tense and flinch as he held his breath and released it in turn. It must have felt the same. 

Someone dove into the foxhole then, bodily into him. Pain erupted, freezing him in place for a moment, before he took a shuddering breath and grabbed whoever landed on him. Babe grasped him back, and tried to yell something. Julian shook his head. Babe’s grip tightened, and he yelled again. The shelling smothered all other sounds, and soon Babe gave up, his hands bunched in Julian’s jacket as they braced against the stream of 88s.

Julian had his eyes screwed shut, and the inside of his cheek caught between his teeth. The taste of blood was bright in his mouth, chased by sharp pain. Julian gasped out, the blood overwhelmed by the taste-smell of earth and burning. 

The shelling went on. It went on and on. A kind of desperation welled up in him, and he scrabbled at Babe, fingers catching over the pockets and the folds of his uniform. This was going to be the rest of his life. This screaming, the burst and boom, the way it rattled through him. 

He didn’t realise when it all stopped. Babe moved first, drawing away, and when Julian’s grip tightened, he fell back against him. 

Babe said something, but the words were too fuzzy to hear. Julian’s ears were ringing. He thought Babe said, “You okay,” and so Julian said, “Yeah, Yeah.” He couldn’t even hear himself, only feeling the shape of his mouth and the unsteady push of his breath.

Then it started again. Loud and sudden, close by, and Julian didn’t even have the time to react when something fell on them. For a second he thought he’d died. He’d escaped being shot, but now he was dead; killed by shelling with Babe half on top of him. Julian’s eyes were burning, and his entire body ached and throbbed. His teeth rattled even though he ground them tightly shut. Around him was a strange muffling silence, and the unexpected intense smell of wood and pine.

Julian’s breath burst out of him then, and he drew another one in. His heart was racing, lodged somewhere in his throat. Hands were at his face, and he blinked, uncertain and confused. It was too dark to see in the foxhole, the shadows intense and almost fully complete. Even his bedroom as a child never got this dark. He’d hated it, and kept the curtains open so that the moonlight fell through. The sun got in his eyes in the morning, but he never minded that.

“Babe,” Julian said. 

He felt what he said more than he could hear it. Everything was smothered out.

Babe was breathing fast, and he was close enough for Julian to feel the puff of his breath against his cheek, and the smell of cigarettes on it. 

It was Babe’s hands at his face, and Babe turned his face just a little, catching hot across the corner of Julian’s lips. His mouth was the warmest thing Julian had experienced during Bastogne, and for a wild second, Julian wanted it back. 

Everything was so still. But it wasn’t quiet. The whine in his ears was too loud, but somehow he could hear his breathing, a ragged in-and-out. 

Julian swallowed. “Is it done?”

“I think so,” Babe said, roughly, “Jesus Christ, I hope so.”

“What happened?”

Babe looked around, and then up. Julian watched him as he did it, the shadows playing over his features, making the smudges of dirt on his face darker, and the white of his skin more stark. 

Then Babe looked at him. “Tree,” he said.

“Huh?”

“There’s a tree.”

There was something that didn’t quite make sense, but Julian didn’t really care. Babe drew away, hands leaving Julian’s face, to push up at the canopy on top of them. Had cover always been that close, that heavy? He tried to think back, searching the jumble of his memory for any recollection of dragging some tree branch after him, and failing. 

“Jesus Christ,” Babe said again, voice cracking. “I think we’re stuck.”

“It’s good cover,” Julian heard himself say, and Babe laughed, vaguely hysterical. 

“Hey!” Babe yelled then. “We’re stuck! Hey!”

Someone shouted back, and Babe yelled again in response. A beam of light shone straight into Julian’s eyes then, half blinding him, and he hissed and jerked his head away. Babe clambered off him, pushing at the leaves and the branches. 

A tree, Julian realised, like he’d said. A tree had fallen on their foxhole. 

Someone called back, their voice muffled through the branches, and then bit by bit the tree was dragged away. The light fell in, white and bright, making Julian squint. It felt like waking up.

\---

They took Foy. Rather, Speirs took Foy. Julian didn’t see it, but he heard about it. Dike was out, shunted to some other place in command. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care where Dike went so long as he wasn’t in any position to lead anyone. Julian was shaking with the dregs of adrenaline, the lingering fear, the leftover panic. He could still hear the pop of gunfire around him, mixed up with confused yelling and commands. It was like some part of him had yet to move from being crammed up against the barn, still waiting for some instruction.

With his hands tight around his rifle, Julian skirted the edge of the village. He’d chewed his bottom lip raw. Stubby grass grew through the snow, and here and there were smudges of blood. A part of him wanted to wonder at his luck at escaping death for what had to be the third time, but the rest of him couldn’t put the thought into focus. But the sense of it was there, forcing an over-awareness of everything around him. The exact shade of the sky, the colour of the dirt under his boots; the body sprawled out beside the cart there, palms turned so they were facing up, the helmet on the patchy snow besides.

“Everything alright, son?” The voice of Bull Randleman took Julian by surprise, but surprise dissolved quickly at the sight of him and Perconte, the latter hitched on Randleman’s back.

“Shot in the ass,” Perconte said, easily, “per tradition. You wanna have a look?”

“No, but thanks,” Julian said, if only because politeness was the easiest thing to reach.

Perconte shrugged from where he was, and said sure in a way that made it sound like Julian was missing out, and still on Randleman’s back, they loped off. Julian stared after them for a second longer, before exhaling hard and moving to follow, coming into Foy proper. Sound gathered around him in gradual degrees, until he found himself in the midst of Easy. They were talking and trading stories, and the clatter of boots on the stone steps of a farmhouse rung out. Another clutch of army photographers were filming the wide grins of soldiers, and a song soon picked up, the words old and familiar, prompting something like relief to finally, _finally_ flood through him.

“My ears are still ringing,” Julian told the closest person, speaking just to say something.

His ears hadn’t really stopped ringing since the barrages, but that didn’t matter. 

“Shit,” was the response, “mine, too.”

Babe found him a little later, asking about his shoulder. 

The question stopped Julian short, making him forget whatever greeting he’d started to say. His shoulder? Julian stared at him thinking, What are you on about, Heffron? When he remembered. 

Somewhere during all the shelling and the take over of Foy he’d forgotten about it. Without thinking, Julian reached up, and pressed the heel of his hand against the bandage. Pain escalated at the pressure, and then receded into a dull throb that was aggravated by movement and rifle recoil. 

“Still there,” he said. Then, “Babe--”

A sharp pop overhead somewhere cut him off. Babe shoved him to the ground, and Julian went down hard and easy. Dirt and grit bit into his cheek, and pain bounced through him. Shouting and gunfire went off, and Julian had only thought Jesus Christ, when someone hollered, and cheers went up. Jesus Christ, the only clear words in his mind.

A moment more passed, and then Babe moved, pushing himself up, and after a second he said, “Looks like they got him.”

“Yeah?” Julian said, his breath kicking up flecks of soil. “I think I’m gonna stay here for a minute anyway.”

Babe laughed and shoved a hand into Julian’s hair, ruffling it. Julian stayed here he was, belly flat on the hard ground, dirt and snow against his cheek, thinking how hot Babe’s hand was, thinking he could just about melt into the ground with relief.

-

He didn’t think about the kiss until later. Not until after Noville. The memory came out of nowhere, or at least almost nowhere, springing on him in the aftermath of the short recapture; when they were packing up to move out, when he saw the concrete fences blown out, and the trees blasted down to almost nothing. The smell of charred wood was strong in the air, intermingled discharge smoke, all of it directing his thoughts to the foxhole, the barrage, the world shaking around him. Babe’s hands on his face, the heat of his breath against his cheek, near his mouth.

It was a kiss, wasn’t it? Julian might’ve been a virgin, but even he had been kissed. Back before the war, before being shipped out, before all of this when he’d been fifteen or sixteen. It’d been a quick thing, too, with a once neighbour. The both of them had been waiting for another friend, and she’d asked him if he wouldn’t mind, and he’d said, no, he’d quite like it, pleased and shy and nervous at once. But really, even that quick kiss had been more than what had happened in the foxhole, and the more he thought about it, the less the foxhole kiss became, until it was nothing more than an accident, and it became embarrassing to think about.

He still couldn’t stop thinking about it though, and Julian found himself playing it over in his mind, trying to tease out more details out of a memory that was mostly sound and shaking. 

Julian gave up in the end, and tried to find Babe in the moving crowd. But for someone who’d been doing nothing but hassle him for days and weeks over his shoulder, he was now impossible to find. Easy moved in messy columns, in among rumbling vehicles and while hoping to and from trucks, all of it aimed for Rachamps. Snow became muddy puddles under their boots, the winter grass ground into nothing.

He couldn’t find Babe, but he did find Skip though, and asked him, “You seen Babe?”

Skip broke away from whatever he was saying to Penkala to tell him, “Down the back, maybe with Bill.” then to Penkala again, “No. Listen to me. You’re wrong. If you fold it first, then it fits in--”

“It doesn’t--”

Julian hung back until he found Bill, and asked him the same thing.

“Babe?” Bill said, “I thought he was with you.”

“If he was I wouldn’t be asking.”

“Jeez, kid,” Bill said, “I was only sayin. He’s usually with you.”

Julian didn’t say anything else as Bill marched on, already deep in another conversation. He was thinking about the foxhole again. Babe’s weight on top of him, and the smell of gunpowder and pine all around. He couldn’t help it.

Eventually, Julian found him up ahead shooting shit with Joe Toye. He caught sight of red hair first, heard the pitch of his voice second, and then realised he was already jogging up to fall into step on Babe’s other side. Babe barely glanced at him, which stung a little, and Julian stared ahead as they walked, only half aware of the man marching in front of him. Whatever their conversation was, Julian didn’t hear it, and soon Joe drifted off to find Luz, and then it was only them. 

“Can you believe we’re not being pulled off the line yet,” Babe said, before Julian could say anything, “Jesus, you’d think we’ve done enough, and they want us to keep going.”

There were clouds overhead, and a chill in the air that promised snow. A little while later the snow came down, dusting over everything like icing sugar. It looked almost pretty, and looked almost like home, any telling details obscured by the flakes. But Julian knew better than to trust it, not when they were moving into Rachamps.

-

The resistance at Rachamps was more significant than how it’d been at Noville. Lipton had them flank the town, and then move in; sweeping through before the Germans really noticed they were there. Gunfire and mortars popped and blasted around him. Julian’s breath came short and sharp, and sweat turned his skin clammy and cold. But they managed to secure the town not easily, but efficiently, with none of the mess of Foy even if the resistance was comparable. They’d taken some Germans prisoner, too, and a couple of the trucks took them away. Julian watched them go, rumbling out of town, the men in the back quiet and defeated; heads downturned, faces covered by dirt-smudged hands.

Not long later, Julian found himself sitting on an upturned bucket, picking at the threads of his sleeve. The cut wasn’t bleeding freely any more at least, small clots of it forming half scabs along the seam of torn skin. Altogether it was nothing much, less than when he’d gotten pinged at the shoulder. And it hadn’t been from enemy fire, but when he’d darted past the corner of a building and gotten caught on some exposed wire.

“Shit, was that from now?”

Babe’s voice made him jump, and Julian looked up, squinting against the snowy glare to see Babe’s face. His brow was creased up, and he was frowning hard. 

“Got tangled on some wire,” Julian said.

Babe crouched on the ground before him, and took his arm, turning it this way and that to study the cut on his forearm. His gentleness took Julian by surprise, and Julian had to stop himself from telling Babe that he hadn’t noticed the wound until now if just to keep him there.

“It’s nothing,” Julian said instead.

“Yeah, well, your nothing is bleeding,” Babe said. “I’m gonna grab Doc.”

“No,” Julian said, “no, he’s busy. It’s fine. I was going to clean it.”

Babe hesitated, and then crouched back down. The town was only small. Somewhere he’d heard someone say that Rachamps was only a couple miles in either direction. There were barns and amenities for animals, and stout looking houses planted here and there. But the animals were gone, and their troughs frozen over, feed left out in the snow. The houses, too, were empty, and more than a couple had walls and windows punched out by gunfire and mortar rounds. 

Babe said, “Give me your canteen,” and Julian handed it over. 

He studied Babe’s face as he opened the lid, and poured water over the messy cut. Julian tensed, the pain bright and stinging, made sharper by the cold. The hair lifted on his arms, and his skin all over tightened. He opened and closed his hand, and said, “Jesus Christ,” pushing the words between clenched teeth. It was a different sort of pain to getting shot, but it hurt all the same, sending shudders down his spine.

“There,” Babe said, once he was done.

“Thanks,” Julian said, automatically, a little breathless.

Babe looked up at him. His eyes were bright, but his brow was furrowed. Julian found himself straightening, half wanting to draw his arm away, and half wanting to lean down into Babe’s space. But before Julian could do any of those things, Babe drew away and capped the canteen.

“Go find Doc,” he said, handing it back, “and get that bandaged up.”

“I don’t need to.”

Babe fussed, but he quit talking about Doc, and yanked out his first aid kit instead. 

“Give me your arm again,” he said.

“You’re the one who gave it back to me.”

Babe snorted, smiled a little, not bothering to say anything as he opened the kit, and undid the small knot of field dressing. Idly, Julian wondered where he’d got the kit, if from the supply drops or from somewhere else. Doc Roe had been relentless in scrounging up supplies during Bastogne, and it seemed like the effect of it was still felt, with everyone passing whatever extras they had along to him without Doc ever asking. 

Babe was just as careful in patching him up even if he wasn’t as efficient about it as Doc was, and Julian watched him work, focus jumping from Babe’s frowning face, to his fingers, down then back up again, until he announced he was done. 

“Thanks,” Julian said, belatedly. 

“Quit getting torn up, will you?” was all Babe said.

The dressing was white and clean against his skin, and it was soft and tucked in place carefully.

Julian couldn’t stop looking at it, thinking how much brighter the bandage was when compared to the snow.

-

The afternoon faded into a cool dusk. No word had come for Easy to move out. Julian heard Perconte talk about getting pulled off the line, and the sentiment must have gone through the Company; and cautious optimism was skipped over in favour of relief, men trading cigarettes and food, setting up camping spots, and talking about what they were going to do back in Mourmelon.

“I’m gonna do nothing the entire time I’m here,” Skip was saying.

“What,” Penkala said, “you were telling me on the way in about all the letters you had to write.”

“Writing letters count as nothing.”

“Malarkey,” Penkala said, “writing letters. Is that nothing or something?”

“I dunno,” Malarkey said, “guess it depends on if you were lying down or standing up.”

“Lying down or standing up?”

Skip said, “See, I’m 100% lying down.”

“Well, how about you ask Faye in those letters you’re writing if they’re nothing or something then.”

“He’s got you there,” Julian said.

Skip made a noise of protest while everyone laughed at him.

“Penk--”

The four of them crowded together smoking. Standing close like that, Julian felt almost warm, but he kept finding his attention moving from the others to the houses that stood around them. There were enough empty barns and abandoned houses that the prospect of sleeping inside looked likely. At least it did until Lipton rounded them up. Julian sent one more longing look at the houses, stolid and inviting. 

“Gentleman,” Lipton said, “to the chapel, if you could, please.”

Night fell over Rachamps as Easy moved inside of the stone building, conversation falling silent as each man walked through the doors. The rows of pews were laid out before them, glass windows let in a thin light from overhead, solemn paintings of Mary and Baby Jesus looked down on them with what felt like understanding.

Julian sank into the closest pew, suddenly too tired to think about the roof over his head or the walls that closed around him. The room had warmed up a little and it drowsed him. He almost didn’t notice when Babe sat down beside him, and asked something. Julian nodded in response to whatever it was, and Babe withdrew a little only to return a second later holding out a cigarette. Julian took it and tucked it inside a pocket, and couldn’t understand why Babe made discontent noises.

He’d meant to ask him, ‘what is it?’ but fell asleep somewhere between the thought and the motion.

-

Sound roused him a while later, and Julian came to with something of a jolt. Babe touched his shoulder, and told him everything was fine.

“What’s happening,” Julian asked, voice rough.

“They brought in a choir,” Babe said. “To sing. You awake?”

“I… Babe,” Julian said, “we’re talking, ain’t we?”

Babe snorted. “Look who’s the wise guy now he’s up.”

There was a choir. Twelve or so young women all dressed neat with their skirts and dresses ironed, and their hair and perfect curls. Julian wanted to ask where they came from, and why they were singing, and he wanted to ask Babe finally, Did you kiss me out there? Except he couldn’t bring himself to speak, too busy watching as the women assembled, and as their instructor lifted her hands, and, in one voice, they started to sing.

-

His family took him to church often, every Sunday like every other family in town. Julian had always stood up when he was supposed to, sat down when it was right to, and said, “Amen,” when prompted. He’d felt guilty about his mind wandering during Mass, and had tried to focus on the Bible in his hands; the parables, and songs, and the psalms. He couldn’t quote as much as his mother could, but he knew the Commandments at least.

Julian didn’t think about any of this sitting at the chapel at Rachamps. The only thing he could focus on was the singing, so beautiful and sweetly pitched that he almost couldn’t stand it. He had to keep blinking because his eyes wouldn’t stop burning. His chest was tight, and his hands were clenched on his knees. Every time he thought he had a handle on it, a certain note was hit, or he’d realise he was warm, verged on hot, or he’d catch sight of one of the women and think, She looks like Mary back home, and then his breath would shudder through him, and he’d have to set his jaw in case he did something like sob out loud. And once that happened, Julian doubted he’d stop.

It was somewhere between the end of one song and the start of another that Julian finally stood, and pushed past the couple of men to reach the end of the pew. Outside was cold, but tolerably so. It didn’t bite, and Julian shoved his hands in his jacket pocket, and breathed through the last of the tightness in his chest, staring out across the farmland. 

There were the shapes of cows in the middle distance, or what he thought was cows, which seemed absurd to him; the idea of something so normal like taking in livestock in and out of barns during the war, and why were they out there anyway, he made himself think. Standing to weather the snow and bare ground. Julian rubbed his eyes, and looked again, and saw nothing in the distance but broken fences and heaps of abandoned hay.

The distinctive opening sound of the side door prompted him to rub his eyes again.

“You okay?” Babe said.

“Yeah,” Julian said, “it was just-- it was just hot in there, you know?”

“Yeah,” Babe said, “I mean. You know, when you’re used to the cold, and then you step into someplace warm, it makes your hands ache, doesn’t it? I mean, I think I prefer that now anyway, but--”

Babe continued talking for a while longer, but Julian didn’t really notice what he said. Instead, he fell into the rhythm of his voice, the pitch of his accent, familiar and pleasant, as well known to him as the sound of his own voice. He thought very clearly then, _I know you_. 

The thought was like a spark, and he said, “Babe.”

Julian studied the not-cows for a second longer, then looked across to him. Babe’s nose was bright red even in the dim light, his skin a shade of blue otherwise. He hadn’t shaved yet, and his stubble was stray and patchy, nothing like what Bill Guarnere could coax in the same amount of time. 

Babe said, “What,” and Julian only looked at him. “Seriously, what?”

Julian started slowly, “Back at the Bois Jacques, at Foy,” he said, “in the foxhole, when we were getting pounded.”

Babe was frowning now, fiddling with a thread hanging from his cuff. “What about it.”

“And the tree fell on us. I didn’t realise it at the time, but back at Noville for some reason, when I was hiding behind some barn. Babe,” Julian said, suddenly earnest, “Babe, did you-- was that--”

Babe lurched forward and slapped both hands at Julian’s mouth, the pain bright and sudden. They both froze, barely breathing. In the quiet of the night, the only thing Julian could hear was his heartbeat and a faint singing from inside. He swallowed, aware of his lips against the palms of Babe’s hand, reminding him of the times his brother used to do the same thing when they were four or five or something. He’d lick his brother’s hand, and he’d tear his hands away shrieking, and then bawl on him for doing it.

Julian didn’t lick Babe’s hand, and soon he drew away, and Julian licked his lips instead and tasted wood, metal, and old tobacco leftover from Babe’s skin. Babe was scowling hard, but in a spooked kind of way, eyes darting left and right as he shoved his hands into his pockets to pull out his cigarettes and lighter.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Babe said, “and anyway--...” he stopped. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

The lighter flared in the darkness, and Julian glanced across the farmyard, nervous at being spotted even though they’d secured the town. The haystacks remained stoic in the fields, lopsided, and Julian remembered, vaguely, watching someone stab their bayonet into the stack to check for any Germans.

“It’s okay,” Julian said, turning back. 

He didn’t really smoke. It got to his head and made him sick, and could only handle maybe half a cigarette before needing to butt it out. “I didn’t mind it.”

“Aw, shit,” Babe said, and Julian looked at him, confused. 

Babe shoved his hands through his hair, and then scrubbed them down his face. He drew hard on his cigarette, and stubbed it out on his cuff, and shoved it away; then he turned and kicked at the door very lightly, as if checking it was shut. Julian watched him do it all with a measure of confused calm. But then, maybe it wasn’t calm either, because his heart was racing in his chest and his hands were clammy again, shoved where they were in his pockets. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Babe said, then something pained passed across his face, and he said, “Okay, I did. I wanted--... I was really fucking scared, Julian, I thought we were gonna die, you know?”

“Yeah,” Julian said.

“I thought we were gonna die, and I wanted to--” Babe gestured, “say goodbye? I guess. I don’t know.”

“We didn’t die.”

“I realise that,” Babe said, flatly. Then he sighed and swore, and said, “it was thanks, then. ‘Thanks for not letting me and my friend die, God’. He’s here, and I’m here, and he’s alive, and I’m alive. You were there. Right there. And you were scared shitless, like me, and your eyes were all wide, and-- So.”

“So.”

“I wanted to,” Babe said, “I--... it shouldn’t have happened.”

Julian stared at him for a long moment, the fall of Babe’s hair across his forehead, and the tight, unhappy look on his face. He knew he should leave the matter there, unexplored and unspoken between them. But then, would he stop thinking about it? Or would it keep coming to him in these unexpected moments? The heat Babe promised, the weight of him.

Julian licked his lips again, the cold stinging them. He said, “Sometimes I have this dream, and in it we’re in Philly, and you’re showing me all the places you go.”

Babe looked at him sidelong. “Yeah?”

“And we’re in this bar, and it’s busy and noisy, but the darts are free, and we go over and play. You tell me that you’re pretty good at darts, and I don’t say anything. You take the first shot, and you get pretty close to bullseye.”

“Right,” Babe said, previous misgiving on his face now replaced by curiosity. 

“Yeah, then it’s my turn and I get bullseye. Every time, I shoot dead centre, and you’re looking at me-- kinda the same way you’re looking at me now.”

Babe clipped his mouth shut, and snorted, and asked him if he was that good at darts anyway. 

Julian shrugged, and grinned, embarrassed. “We leave after that, and you keep asking why I never said anything about darts.”

“Yeah?” Babe said, “then what.”

Julian hesitated, glancing to the door, still shut. He could still hear the faint rise and fall of singing from inside. 

“Then you take me home.”

Babe swore again, his breath making small clouds in the air. He rubbed at his face again.

“I take you home, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Babe said, “okay.”

Julian’s mouth had gone all dry. He stood, watching Babe, trying to figure out what he meant by ‘okay’, and what the expression on his face meant, exactly. His heart was still beating hard in his chest, and along the cut on his forearm, and at his shoulder, still healing, the skin mostly closed together, becoming whole. It had started to snow again, too, but only lightly. The flakes drifted in the air lazily to settle on skin and clothes. It was pleasant. Julian had forgotten that snow could be pleasant.

“Babe, you’re really warm,” Julian said. “Do you mind that I said that?”

“No,” Babe told him after a moment. “Why are you asking for anyway?” 

And he stepped forward, took his face and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Further notes to come!


End file.
